


Idle Larks

by LiveOakWithMoss



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (I swear nothing crude happens), Ask Nellas to teach you her Oak Salutation, Beleg is bad at free time, Gen, Humor, Mablung 'deez nuts' of Doriath, Off-color jokes, Sindarin yoga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 11:37:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4665093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beleg and Mablung have time off and do only very, very productive things with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Idle Larks

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. calaeriloflindon was my second place giveaway winner and requested some lighthearted Doriath hijinks with Mablung, Beleg, and Nellas being goofs. I hope this suits!  
> 1\. This is gen and not at all shippy, but I couldn’t stop the damn march-wardens from making lots of coarse, off-color jokes. Mostly I blame Mablung. Also, Daeron and Saeros get so much shade thrown at them their growth has probably been stunted.  
> 2\. In other news, Sindar yoga is totally a thing, right? And if it is, ‘Idle lark’ is definitely the name of one of the poses.

Mablung and Beleg were walking slowly, something closer to an amble than a stride, off-duty for once and not quite sure what to do with the unexpected lack of responsibility. Mablung was winding pinecones into his sling and firing them into the canopy of the forest, and Beleg would try to shoot them down before they reached their peak trajectory.

“This is probably a waste of arrows,” Beleg commented, and notched another to his string.

“And you’re a waste of your father’s seed,” said Mablung comfortably, and let another pinecone fly. “We can retrieve them later.”

“It is this attitude which makes you a below average woodsman, I have often said so. Let us sift the ashes later, Beleg, say you. Let us have one more wineskin and then we can scuff our tracks and bury the deer entrails and extinguish the fire.  _Do it later._ And then the Orcish patrol descends…”

“That happened  _once_ , ai, you have the memory of an Ent. Nice shot, by the way.”

“Thank you.” Beleg lowered his bow as the pinecone rolled across the forest floor, pierced by his arrow.

They ambled on, sniping good-naturedly at each other. “I don’t fancy your tone, Cúthalion. The sanctimonious nagging, the whine about ‘what befits a march-warden of the Girdle’…I get enough of that each time I am forced to sit beside Saeros at meals.”

“Hence why Thingol had you separated. Speaking of which, was he the reason you were in such a mood this morning at rounds? You fair took the head off that young recruit for losing his whetstone, and I wondered what had put your braies in such a bunch.”

“Nay, that was thanks to my other favorite member of the court, exercising his ‘artistic license’ at my expense.” Mablung snorted, and slashed with his sling at the undergrowth.

Beleg hummed placidly. “I truly do not know how I came to associate myself with someone who makes friends so easily. I cannot even keep all your feuds straight these days. Never have I met such a person for fights and scraps and resentments, and never shall I again, I hope. But ferociously wielded artistic license, eh? At your expense, how frightful.”

“You mock.” Mablung curled his lip. “But artistic license or not, I’m going to spit in Daeron’s ear – or else spit him on my lance – the next time he makes a comment about my appearance.”

“My word, spit him on your lance? I didn’t think he was your usual type, he’s a bit scrawny, but I suppose the heart wants what the heart wants, and the lance stirs at what the lance stirs.”

“Silence, rogue, don’t even joke about such things. My prick shrivels at the thought.”

“Och, can’t have that. So I take it you didn’t find Daeron’s ‘Mablung’s new haircut’ ballad very funny? In his defense, you  _did_  look like a dyspeptic Noldo with that fringe.”

“Not you too, by the Valar. I thought you were my comrade and friend, not another smirking court ferret. Milord Thingol has forbidden me from assaulting the thin bard, but you I’ll just kill out here in the woods and pretend it was a hunting accident.”

“ _Very_  Nolodrin of you.”

Mablung whirled another pinecone into the canopy, and Beleg let fly with an arrow. They waited. The arrow, and pinecone, never descended.

“That’s odd.”

“Aye, one often expects certain things from the laws of nature. That which goeth up must cometh down, and all that.”

“Unless your arrow skewered something and stuck there.”

“Hist! What was that?”

Both Elves jumped as a pinecone landed with an emphatic thud at their feet. Mablung bent to examine it, while Beleg narrowed his eyes and scanned the trees.

“You did hit it, Beleg, I can see where the arrow went through. So where’s your – ”

Two thin pieces of wood followed the pinecone to the forest floor, one of them clipping Mablung’s ear on the way down.

“That was very foolish,” said a small, clear voice. “Very thoughtless. Very dumb.”

“Ouch,” said Mablung, raising a hand to his ear.

“Since when do the great wardens of Thingol practice such careless forestry?” The small voice had gotten closer, until it was right above them. “Shooting without heed into the trees and no mind for who might be in them.”

“I always know whither my arrows,” said Beleg, carefully perusing the treetops, his eyes finally fixing on something just beyond visible. “I would not have struck you, Nellas.”

“So you say.” There was a rustle. “And yet your arrow ascended, and then vanished you knew not where. What is your excuse?”

“That is unusual behavior for an arrow, I admit. Did it pin the pinecone to a tree trunk?”

“Almost. And almost it pinned my  _hand_  to the pinecone to a tree trunk.”

Beleg winced.

Still feeling the tip of his ear, Mablung examined his fingers and drew his dark brows together in a great frown of outrage. “I’m bleeding from the _ear_.”

“And  _I_ was nearly crippled.” The branches above them shook indignantly.

“I am sorry, Nellas,” said Beleg, ignoring Mablung. “I am glad you were not hurt. But ho, then, did you snatch the arrow from the air?”

“It was that or be stuck like a bug on a pin.”

“Impressive,” said Mablung, looking impressed despite himself as he wiped his hand on his leggings, but Beleg had bent to retrieve his broken arrow and tsked sadly at the sight.

“You snapped my pheasant fledged arrow! I spent a week getting this one perfectly balanced.”

“Then you should not have been using it for acorn practice.”

“Pinecone,” said Beleg mildly, and slipped the two halves of the arrow into his quiver.

Mablung braced his hands on his hips. “Why don’t you show yourself, wronged but unseen forest spirit?” He grinned up into the trees. “Or nay, not a spirit, a squirrel. Is there a wee brown squirrel up there? Looking for nuts? You’ll be more likely to find them down here, little squirrel…”

“Careful,” came the same soft voice, and another pinecone whirred out of the leaves and hit Mablung in the eye. He dropped back, cursing. “I just found a nest of abandoned eggs, and they will smell wonderful in your hair.”

Beleg chuckled.

“Blinded, bleeding from the ear, and with an unsympathetic friend,” Mablung muttered. “It’s enough to make one feel positively Noldorin.”

“Stay away from fire.”

There was a small shower of twigs and pine needles, and a slight figure descended from above, landing on the ground with hardly a noise.

Nellas brushed tousled hair out of her eyes, and acknowledged the slight nod of respect Beleg gave her.

“So our march-wardens are off duty?”

“Aye,” said Beleg, and the two of them started down the path as Mablung followed behind, still grumbling quietly about his ear. “Milord said we had more than earned a break after the incident last month – ”

“That was all me,” said Mablung loudly. “I lured the Orcish patrol into complacency and a clever trap, allowing Beleg to wipe them out easily. He could not have been so efficacious without me; you are welcome, my friend.”

Nellas craned her head around to eye Mablung. “Ooh, was this the bear steaks incident I heard about?”

Mablung growled. “The smell was not that strong!”

“It brought down a troop of orcs from hills 100 leagues distant,” said Beleg, “but never mind, it was a fortuitous mistake, and caused the king to graciously give us some leave as reward.”

“Forgetting,” said Mablung, finding Beleg’s side and elbowing his friend, “that Strongbow here is incapable of relaxation. So a mere few hours of napping and then he’s twitching and drumming his fingers and driving me half mad with his fidgeting.”

“Free time is no reward,” said Beleg. “What does one do with it?”

“Indulge in pleasures!” Mablung gestured broadly. “Good wine, good food, fair company…”

“Ah, like your preoccupation with yon lovely minstrel. I’m not stopping you from entertaining the luscious Daeron.”

“Go sit on your bow, Cúthalion.”

“Belthronding is not  _that_  attractive.”

Nellas sighed deeply. “I am remembering why I don’t spend more time in your company.”

There was a silence.

“Belthronding is more attractive than Daeron, though,” said Mablung, apropos of nothing much.

“And Daeron prefers maidens, I believe,” said Nellas, after a further pause.

“I am so sorry, Mablung, you may be out of luck.” Beleg laid a contrite hand on Mablung’s shoulder. “But if you feel the need to compose a sad poem about your lost love, I can deliver it to the unfeeling bard for you.”

“Listen, Cúthalion, I’ll give you a poem to deliver.”

Mablung went on to describe, in precise detail, the exact way in which Beleg might be able to intimately know his weapon of choice until in the eyes of the Valar they would be considered wed. Beleg and Nellas both listened with interest until Mablung had finished.

“…with leather, but only once the grease is entirely gone.”

“I am not sure I’m flexible enough,” said Beleg thoughtfully, once he was sure that Mablung had completed his narrative.

Nellas shook her head. “If you had continued our morning practice, you might yet be able to get your leg over your head.”

“True. But your Oak Salutation was always better than mine.”

“Just because your height hampered you there. Your Crouching Pigeon was admirable until you pulled your hamstring so badly.”

“My Pigeon was always more Screaming than Crouching, anyway…”

“What ARE you talking about?” said Mablung loudly. “Are the rumors true, then? Is there a sordid history between you? I always scoffed at the gossips, and I don’t know when Beleg would have done anything given that I share quarters with him and I know for a fact he has less of a social life than a concussed warg, but…”

Beleg and Nellas both turned stern faces upon him. “Bite your tongue,” said Nellas. “I am a maiden.”

Mablung sketched a sardonic bow. “My profoundest apologies, milady. Beleg, do you preserve your maidenhood as well?”

Beleg ignored him. “What you so crudely interpreted as an illusion to bodily union is a practice that Nellas used to guide us through. It hones strength and flexibility.”

“And encourages mindfulness in body, breath, and mind,” added Nellas.

“Sounds like bodily union to me.”

“It’s  _not_.”

“Ohh,” said Mablung, a look of recognition suddenly dawning. “Is this that thing you used to do in the mornings, Beleg, where you’d stand on one leg and look like a heron taking a piss?”

“Pissing Heron,” said Beleg, nodding. “A righteous pose.”

“Oh, aye, most righteous.”

“It is a very meditative…” Nellas broke off and looked up at the two march-wardens, who both towered over her and were trying to suppress grins. “I get the impression that you two are mocking me.”

“Nay,” they said together. “Never!”

“Well, perhaps a little,” conceded Beleg, as Nellas looked unconvinced. “But I tell no lie, Nellas, I did continue the practice during my patrols. It focused the mind wonderfully and kept my legs from cramping.”

Nellas perked up. “That is good to hear. Perhaps you could spread the word to others in your ranks? My morning classes are reduced to just myself, the odd curious sparrow, and that handmaiden of the queen’s who is being forced to attend as part of her anger management regime.”

“I like that handmaiden,” said Mablung at once. “She’s the one who threw her venison-loaf at Saeros, is she not?”

“Yes, but I don’t think she’d be there if she didn’t have to be. I don’t get the impression she’s actually all that interested in learning how to increase her strength and flexibility, and she always falls asleep during guided mediation.”

Mablung stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe I should start attending.”

“Oh, are you interested in the work of breath control and increased focus?” Nellas hurried to keep up with Mablung’s long strides.

“He is interested in violent handmaidens,” said Beleg, swinging Belthronding idly.

“Oh. I can also teach you to put your feet behind your own neck….”

“I’m in,” said Mablung at once. He stooped, and retrieved another couple pinecones. “Come, Beleg, now that we know no one is haunting the verge, see if you can hit two at a time.”

“I should not risk my other arrows,” said Beleg, but he was already laying an arrow to string. “Go on, then.”

Nellas sighed and then ducked as Mablung whirled his sling. “March-wardens off duty. Hunh! Most dangerous of creatures in these woods.”

“Perhaps Thingol will learn his lesson,” said Beleg, as Belthronding sang. “Never reward one’s soldiers…Och, free time! What a waste.”

**Author's Note:**

> 3\. ‘Braies’ are old-timey panties, btw, and you can thank sathinfection for their inclusion.


End file.
